Slipples
by backpack bootswiper map
Summary: Have you ever felt incomplete? Like a part of you is missing? This is definitely one of the best fanfictions ever written. The writing is excellent, the characters are deep and well-rounded. The storyline and plotline are both great. The ending is so sad, though. If you're a male, make sure no one else is around while reading this if you're ashamed of crying in front of other peopl
1. Chapter 1

The blizzard winds howl loudly outside Dora's Haberdashery.  
It's cold and dark out - colder than a witch's titty in a cast iron bra and darker than the realization that when daddy dresses up as Santa Clause and hits mommy, it's not really because he loves her. Also he's not really Santa Clause and Santa Clause isn't real.

The wind is howling - the nailed shut door rattling against its hinges violently. More violent than what daddy does to you when you point out he's not Santa Clause, and refuse to call him that.

"Now, listen up everybody," Backpack says loudly, dragging a cuffed Swiper to the center of the room, getting everyone's attention. "This here's Swiper."

Swiper curtseys.

Backpack continues. "He's got a bounty of six dollars and an old pack of gum on his head for various counts of swiping - even when they told him not to. Apparently it only works if you say it three times. Anyway."

It sets a bucket down the table in front of it and starts to disassemble everyone's collected revolvers. Dropping their pieces in said bucket, it nods to Benny, offering the full bucket. "Do me a favor will ye? Take this bucket and drop it down the crapper."

"Why the fuck is I the one gotta do it?" Benny asks, disappointed.

"Because you're a six year old bull with a big heart and I kinda sorta trust you."

Benny grumbles and grabs the bucket. He's heard this stupid speech before anyhow. He wrenches the door open and ventures out into the cold dark blizzard. Several characters hammer shut the door behind him nondescript while shouting, because it's funny to me, and because it's funny to me, it's funny to you so be sure to tell me how funny I am in a review ok? Ok.

When that's done, Backpack continues. In the movie, he collects everyone's guns after the speech, but I didn't feel like writing that part because writing is a lot of work and I want to get to the reviews as quickly as possible.

"I plan on collecting my six dollars and my old pack of gum. I like gum better when its aged, the way it just kinda breaks apart into chunks in your mouth instead of into a juicy wad of flavor, fat with saliva. It's pleasurable to me. Like masturbating to something that isn't a mexican, or filling my socks with meatsauce. I enjoy it. Now. Does anyone here have any designs on stopping me from dragging this worthless degenerate up to the courthouse, watching him hang by the neck until he's dead, and collecting my bounty?"

Nobody says anything. It's unsure if anyone's paying attention to it.

"Somehow, I don't believe you."

"Slop's on," says Pablo, setting a steaming hot pot of stew on the bar. "Come and get it."

Everyone flocks to the food, abandoning Backpack and his speech. He shrugs. Just about the time Backpack gon' get its, the door gets kicked open and Benny comes in screaming. "I aint never going out into that shit! Ever again!"

He waddles over to the fire and wraps himself in the carpet. As Backpack sets its bowl down to drag Swiper over to the door to nail the door shut.

"You OK Benny?" Map asks.

"AAAAAAAAAAA." Benny says.

"..You want some soup?" Boots asks.

"aaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."

"Okay, man," Boots says. "Let us know, I guess."

"aaaaa" Benny says. "aaa. aaa. aaa. aaa. aaa. aaa. aaa."

With the door successfully nailed in, Backpack fixes itself and Swiper a bowl of slop and they sit down at the table with the rest of the degenerates.  
There's GOBBLING sounds as they GOBBLE their soup.

"Now, listen," Backpack says in a closeup shot of him and Swiper. "I'm gonna uncuff you while we eat. But if your ass gets up off that chair, or you make any sudden movements, I'm gonna put a bullet-" it toot-toots both of his topnipples with its backpack strap "-right here and (respectively) right here. Now, that maybe won't kill you, but you won't have no nipples no more, and I find that funny. We don't even need them and you'll be considered some kind of disfigured, like a cripple or a retard."

Swiper rolls his eyes and swipes up his wooden foodspoon to slurp down some sloppy stew.

Map breaks the silence. "Boots," it says, smiling, deranged.

"Get the fuck out of my face with your bullshit, Map, I'm eating."

"I heard something about you having some kind of commission from RhysWilde."

"Fuck off, Map, I'm serious." Boots gobbles more slop. Slurping noises reign supreme.

"Now, why would Backpack of all people believe something crazy like that?"

"Leave him alone, Map, you sadist," Backpack says, sipping and slurping its coffy. "Nobody wants to hear your shit. Self-crit or ban."

"I'm just asking questions! What, is it illegal to ask questions in Dora's Haberdashery? I don't see no banhammer here."

"Listen you goddamn drawing of gynecology," Backpack starts.

"Geometry," Swiper says, interrupting him. "Land placement is Geometry," he emphasizes.

"You shut your filthy whore mouth you fucking weasel." Backpack is more serious than it has ever been in its whole life. "The only reason scum like you gets to exists is so decent things like myself get to take pleasure in watching you get fucked to death by a pack of ravenous armpit sniffing wolves, you understand? You say another fucking word without my permission and-"

"That's enough," Boots clears his throat, retching and swallowing. "Yeah, I got a commission from RhysWilde."

"Can I see it?"

"No you can not," Boots says flatly, without regarding it.

"What's it about?"

"Wolf raping Socks, my OC and sniffing his armpits."

"Oh! A rape fic!" Map scoffs. Muffled giggling as an ominous floating metal spoon shoves stewslop into its face. It chews sloppily. "How believable, pickin' a subject matter for something he already writes. You didn't ask him to step outside his comfort zone?"

"He write what he write and he do it good," Boots says shrugging and GOBBLING more soupstew.

There's slop all over everybody's mouth.

"Backpack," says Map.

Backpack looks up from its slop and over at Map. Slurping and smacking and rotating its jaw like some kind of simple machine function. "What the fuck you want, Map."

"You believe that?"

Backpack rolls its eyes and sighs in disgust, licking the slops off its lips and chin. "Believe what, Map?"

Map cackles. "You mean to tell me that you believe that this here fictional monkey got a personalized fanfiction commission about Wolf raping his OC, Socks, from RhysWilde? An actual human fanfiction author for a different fandom?! Aha!" Map cackles some more. "I got a knock-knock joke, but you gotta start it. You gullible mongoloid. Jesus fucking Christ." Map cackles a little bit more, redirecting its smug vitriol back to Boots. "Sniffing his armpits! That was a nice touch."

Boots breaks character and laughs as well. "It was a nice touch, though, right?"

Backpack is bamboozled. "Wh-" it looks at Map and Boots and Boots and Map. And Boots. "What the fuck are ya'll talkin' about?!"

"I knowed it was bullshit!" Swiper laughs through his slop, chewing with his mouth wide open and talking with his mouth full. "I spit on it! I spit on his dumbass commission! Monkey like't'h've busted my coconut but I done did it and I laughed in his dumb fucking monkey face!"

"Good for you bitch!" Map sets up a high five with its ominous invisible hands and nobody notices because its hands are invisible, but muscular. It decides to fingerguns instead.

"You filthy goddamn monkeys are all the same," Backpack says, choking on its tears. "Throwing your goddamn fuh-feces around and." Backpacks expression tightens, stretches out and breaks into a sob before snapping back into place. "A-A-An-A-And breakin' things hearts...!" Backpacks voice cracks like its face again and it sobs as if it were a woman backpack or a sissy backpack or a gay backpack instead of just a backpack.

"Now, Backpack." Boots gives Backpack an earnest look in his face. "You can't believe I did all that shit I said for him, can you? RhysWilde? I don't even exist. And he does. What you make of that, man, come on?"

"I make that you're a mean mugging monkey som'bitch," Backpack says, tears in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks like a master of kung fu and karate rolls sushi - with discipline. "Dirty monkeyshines. Shenanigans! Paul Rudd behavior."

"And what was I supposed to do?" Boots's face turns grave. "It got me on that stagecoach, didn't it? This furry Star Fox rape commission had the desired effect of disarming anthropomorphic inanimate objects. Because we all know they're gonna yiff in hell when they're no longer useful. I do what I can to survive, you understand?"

"I understand you're a damn dirty ape," Backpack says coldly. "You stink and I hate you."

Boots sighs and picks up his plate and bowl. He gets up from the table and goes and grabs another plate and bowl and fills it up with slop and stew and soup and stuff and walks over to the chair that Grumpy Old Troll is sitting in. He offers a slopsoup.

Grumpy Old Troll hesitantly takes it. Boots makes for the chair across from him.

"Go-rilla away from him you chimpchump! He doesn't want you smelling bad near his food!"

"Stand down, Map," Boots says, authoritatively. "I shared a battlefield with this angry pile of hair."  
Boots looks at Grumpy Old Troll. "Or would you deny me that too?"

Grumpy Old Troll almost looks vulnerable. He begins to eat, slop staining and sogging out his gold and orange fur around his mouth hole. "I guess you were there," he says through a mouthful of slopstew.

Boots sits down. He looks at the Grumpy Old Troll before nomming on more slop. "How you get along after the war?"

"Aint no cripple. Aren't got no didn't get no Jew infection. Seem alright."

"You married?"

"Nawh."

"Blackpilled?"

"Yeh."

More slopGOBBLING. Mushy sounds of thick goo being stirred against other thick goo and chunks of stuff.

"Do you read Star Fox fanfiction?"

The Grumpy Old Troll nods, smacking his slop and GOBBLING it down. "All the time."

"Who do you ship?" His question is earnest. Boots really wants to know.

"Sometimes Plippy, sometimes Slox," he says, casually chewing on sloppy meat chunks. "Better than my no good brother of mine. Always shipping his OC with someone like Falco or Fox or any real characters with any real integrity." He breathes through his chewing and you can hear it.

"Slippy, huh. He your favorite?" Boots asks.

"Yeh. Except when he has the sissy voice, I don't like the sissy voice. I don't consider that canon. He likes to listen to rock music and build advanced engine blocks. I was on my way to Sexy Frogcon when I got trapped here, in this blizzard we're all trapped in."

"Huh." Boots laughs. "I went to Sexy Frogcon last year."

"Y-you went to Sexy Frogcon?"

Boots nods. Sloppily eating soup. "I met Slippy."

Old Grumpy Troll narrows his eyes. Smelling his own beardstink, soaked with slop and sweat from sitting too close to the fire. "You didn't meet Slippy," he says to Boots accusatorily.

"I met Slippy and he told me a story," Boots says, smacking slop.

"You met slippy?" Disbelief and fallen slop. Back into the bowl and on his lap and breast.

Boots gets up, chowing down on his dirty chowder as he circles the Old Grumpy Troll's chair and drops a gun in his reach.  
"I met Slippy and he told me a story and - you - was in it."

"You quit flappin' them goddamn fabricatin' chimplips!" Map screams at the monkey, pointing an invisible finger at Boots from the table. "He's trying to use his monkeyshining to trick you into picking up that gun so he can kill you lawlike!"

"Fist yourself with an arm I can't see, Map. I'm talking to this Grumpy Old Troll."

"Y-you didn't meet Slippy?"

"Oh, I met Slippy. I met Slippy and he told me a story and his story involved you, Grumpy Old Troll. Now, I'll tell it to you like he told it to me. Are you listening, Grumpy Old Troll? Lean in close.

* * *

 **Slippy's Nipples**  
 **(Slipples)**

* * *

The windshield wipers smear water across my windshield instead of wiping them away.

Blurring my clearish sight of the roundheads.

This car would never pass inspection.

Humans.

They interest me, you see.

They're so...

They're just beautiful.

Their skin is smooth and dry sometimes, unless it gets sweaty.

They have multiple external and internal parts to their cloaca.

A waste of time and bad design, but still. Fascinating.

Dingly dangly parts and multiple holes in the same area.

I don't want to be human, but.

But I figured out the perfect anatomy exploit blatantly disregarded by god.

God. Fuck. We'll get to that later.

I won't be the same, though.

Not since I discovered them.

You see, humans are different for other mammels.

They have pointy noses, like swimmy creatures, like me.

They have useless dangling parts and multiple holes like them.

But somewhere between no nipples and full nipples, god made sense of this beast. Two human nipples, built perfectly to sit on your chest and peepee from.

You can't get more optimum than that. You just can't.

My amphibious body was perfect before this discovery. Two human nipples that you can make pee with?

The word "sold" doesn't exactly piss on the peepee activation stone to tell you the location of three to six quadranaughts - special AIDS samples you can get hard off of from the Donghat System.

As in, it doesn't activate.

As in, justice is not served by some faggot in a cape on this one.

As in, I don't have two nipples for which to make pee with and peepee at things in their general direction instead of it being a general secretion drippy fluid that builds up around my puckered cloaca until I bump my ass on a rock and splash a snail trail down like a popped water balloon.

You didn't ask.

I didn't tell.

This is my rifle.

This is my gun.

This is for murder.

This is for emotional scarring.

Kill me and I'll kill you.

Be me and I'll beat you.

No queers allowed.

I need nipples.

I must defy god's obvious mistake.

I must erectify the interspecies animal daisy chain.

I must.

I will.

I am.

The door to the doctor's office opens.

I speak with the nurse.

She asks what I'm here for.

I tell her to see the doctor.

She says she means what are my symptoms.

I tell her I'm a symptom of society and I cannot be contained.

She says no,

She says that's not what she means.

She asks me what I need.

I tell her I need a better world where impoverished souls aren't shat upon by the wealthy and bourgeois.

I tell her I need a world where there's a gun in each hand and a muffin in each mouth.

I tell her I need a world where doctor-patient confidentiality was a real thing, and I didn't have to tell some stupid bitch just above minimum wage value what I'd rather just tell my doctor that and have the doctor figure it out instead of you because you don't even know what the fuck you're talking about you dumb asshole Satanist.

The nurse takes my blood pressure.

My blood pressure is normal for a Toad.

Toads run a little higher than normal toads.

It's the salt we secrete.

We need to ingest extra salt.

The nurse puts a thermometer in my cloaca.

It's room-temperature.

I don't like room-temperature solids in my cloaca.

If it was peepee, this would be different.

But I get mad.

I say aren't you supposed to be changing shit or something? Nurse?

I guess those are questions.

I guess I don't say questions.

I guess I ask questions.

I guess I ask if the nurse is supposed to be changing diaper shit or something demeaning like that because she's just a nurse.

I call out nurse?

She isn't responding.

She freezes and melts like a recording of an ice sculpture on a high fast forward setting where you see obviously different frames of objects deteriorating.

She tells me she'll get the doctor.

But she isn't there.

She's gone.

I'm alone with the ticking of the clock and boring magazines.

I stare at the step-by-step enema how-to comic on the wall.

I learn how to give someone an enema.

I will forget this in the near future, but I won't be aware I'm forgetting until long after I've actually forgot.

The doctor comes in.

She looks like General Pepper.

Like a lady version of General Pepper.

I look down at my Cornerian Abobocare Insurance Card.

My doctor is a golden lab named Dr. Helen Pepper.

Maybe it's his sister.

She's too old to be his daughter.

She'd be dead if she was his mom.

Or dying.

Or would she?

Who knows?

I'm not gay.

I think about my cloaca grinding against something hard.

I think about having nipples that make peepee.

Like humans do.

I think about those nipples and how they squirt peepee like geysers.

The faucets that will one day spill gold from my upper torso.

Today.

It has to be today.

Or I'll die.

Die from heartbreak.

Like in the original Little Mermaid.

I shake my head.

I grit my teeth.

I hold my peepee back.

To waste it on a splash from my cloaca.

Like I'm some kind of disgusting faggot.

(Grumpy Old Troll smiles.)

(Boots continues with Slippy's story.)

Dr. Helen Pepper is here.

She asks me some questions.

I answer them.

She spanks me seven times for eating some bad fungys.

My cloaca builds its fluids harmoniously.

She asks what I want.

I tell her I need nipples.

She says those are expensive.

She says five hundred credits for parts alone.

And to make them work? I ask.

She tells me I don't produce milk.

I tell her I don't believe her arrogance.

I tell her to check her privilege.

I tell her I need to peepee from those nipples.

I laugh at how stupid she is for a doctor.

Like how I'm better than her.

I'm better at organic life.

I'm better at organic thought.

She gives me a look I don't like.

She asks if I wanna pee through my nipples.

I call her a dumb bitch and tell her of course that's what I want.

She shrugs.

She does some geology and figures out the mechanics of giving me nipples and letting me pee through them.

It is one of the best days of my life.

Getting pieces of my chest punched in.

Filling those spaces with nipples.

Round flesh head nipples.

Like I always wanted.

She tells me that'll be seventy-four credits.

I am sickened.

Disgusted.

Overwhelmed with ugly concepts.

I tell her I don't have that.

She tells me to come back when I do.

I ask her if she's fucking serious.

She says she is.

I get mad.

I throw a fit.

I express my anger in a lot of unhealthy ways.

Later, when my frog knuckles are bleeding from punching a brick wall, I ask god how long its been since it gave a shit about me or if it ever has, already knowing the answer.

Bullshit.

It doesn't answer.

How typical.

God is dead.

I'm in my car and the rain is coming down on it and the windshield wipers don't work well at all.

If I get the money by tomorrow I can get the surgery at a discount.

She told me about the two-for-one nipple discount special.

I don't have the money to afford that.

If I let this deal go, I'll have less money to afford the things I need.

Nipples.

Human nipples.

I fantasize about having them

I think about what the sensation of making peepee through them must feel like.

I think about that and amphibious slime begins to leak from my eyes, making extra sticky streaks along the curves of my face.

That means sadness.

We are sad.

I, myself, and you, the reader.

You are also sad.

Slippy does not have nipples.

Me, Slippy.

I do not have nipples.

Feel this with me.

We feel it together.

Wiper blades smear violence and gore across the windshield.

Tomorrow is the Star Fox Institution's Bread By Blind Boys Bakesale In Association With God And Ronald McDonald's Christian Children's Charities, which has already raised over a hundred and four credits.

I guess I gotta call Fox for help.

Once again.

I call Fox for help.

I dial his number.

I listen to the ringing.

I listen to his voicemail message.

I leave him a message in my canon voice, the voice I'm speaking in n-"

* * *

"That is NOT, Slippy's canon voice!" he thinks about picking up that gun but he doesn't.  
Not yet.

"Shut the FUCK UP, OLD man," Boots says loudly, "I'm telling a fucking story. Anyway, as I recall, he said-

* * *

I'm talking to Tikal, my guidance counselor.

I ask her if she finds me attractive again.

She tells me she doesn't again.

She tells me that I'm as ugly as a toad again.

She giggles again, at my expense again.

I laugh bitterly again.

I tell her she isn't funny again.

She laughs again.

I sigh again.

The sun comes up and yet the rain still falls on my car.

I continue to talk to Tikal, in my present tense memories.

She asks about my mommy and daddy, but I'm not ready to talk about that.

Not to her.

Not to anyone.

I tell her I don't want to talk about it.

Fox calls me back.

I tell him I need seventy-three credits from his blind kids thing.

He tells me he can't do that.

I ask him why.

He tells me the kids are blind and they need the money so they can see again.

I tell him that's bullshit because all they're going to do when they can see is demand an inordinate amount of nipples.

I tell him I only want two nipples.

He tells me the kids are blind again.

I tell him they can't even even see the nipples they don't have.

He asks me to leave.

I'm not on the phone with him anymore, I'm in his house.

He tells me I'm being belligerent.

I tell his brains to spray the floor.

I hang up the phone.

He won't give me the money.

I wait until it is nighttime again.

Because all of this is happening simultaneously I tell Tikal I'm fine.

I've always been fine and I'll always be fine.

She may not believe me but she can't detain me.

So, I'm the most places I can be at once.

And at once I steal from the Star Fox Institution's Bread By Blind Boys Bakesale In Association With God And Ronald McDonald's Christian Children's Charities, at least over a hundred dollars.

Maybe more than that.

I skilfully sneak in and away.

I think about Peppy telling me to go with god.

But deep down inside I tell god he's a stupid fucking asshole because he never gave me nipples. Not like a human.

Not human nipples that make peepee.

Human peepee.

I steal the cashdollarcredits from the charity because Fox won't give them to me.

I steal over one hundred credits.

I don't need all these credits but I take them anyway.

The only trouble is that I have to kill Fox to get away.

I thought we were friends.

I guess we are not.

I weep for my fallen friend that I killed.

You weep with me, because it is sad.

Anyway, I take the money to the doctor.

And Dr. Helen Pepper gives me the nipples I always wanted.

She says my nipples are smelly.

They are.

They're covered in blood.

She tells me that I have nipples.

I know.

She tells me they can make peepee.

They do."

* * *

"You didn't meet Slippy," he says angrily.

"Oh, but I did," says Boots, raising his eyebrows. "I met him, he told me that story, and you know what else happened?"

"No. Fuck you."

"Hahahaha," Boots bellows from his belly. "He told me he met some weird pile of orange and yellow hair, awhile back. He told me it was disgusting. He told me it was probably gay."

"I'm not gay that's not canon."  
His hands are twitching. The Old Grumpy Troll looks at that filthy monkey. Then he looks at the gun.

"Well, after he told me that story," Boots continues, grinning devilishly. "He asked me what I thought of those nipples. Would you like to know what I said?"

"You didn't even meet Slippy..?"

"I told him that was the finest pair of nipples I had ever seen. You shoulda seen the look in his eyes - I knew then and there what was fixing to happen. So he asked me if I'd like to take this conversation a little more intimate. I said, well, I'd rather like that a lot. So he led me away from his booth to this little dumpster he liked to fish around in out back, thing was just fuuuull of flies."

"You didn't meet Slippy. That's not canon Slippy."

"As Slippy Toad got down on his knees and unbuttoned and unzipped my pants his eyes widened in a fashion ya'll never seen before. But the same thing would happen to ya'll iffin' ya'll saw what he saw. I'm sure he's seen a lot of hyperdicks in his time in the Star Fox fandom, but he aint neeeever seen one like mine before. Without saying a word, his jaw started unhinging. Saliva and slime dripping from his wanton lips as he struggled to wrap them around my giant monkey pecker. Before you even knowed it he was full up like an undersized condom, bursting at the reservoir tip."

Grumpy Old Troll hangs like a horse thief. He doesn't say a word.

"Ehehehe. You're starting to see pictures, aint ye? Giant chimp dingus in your favorite character's mouth? He never did get to pee on me with them nipples but. I can promise you. His final moments were the best he ever had."

Grumpy Old Troll reaches for the gun and as soon as his hand touches the handle six shots tear apart his fur and send blood everywhere.  
Fountains of blood and matted hair splattering the floor and the ceiling. Boots holsters his pistol.

* * *

 **Swiper's got a secret**

* * *

An inordinate amount of time passes.  
Isa offers to take the corpse of Grumpy Old Troll outside. A rock, paper, scissors tournament is conducted to decide who would help her.  
Benny loses.  
While they drag the bodies outside, Backpack holds the broken door closed. Its rifle aimed at Swiper.

Map and Tico discuss the legality of what just happened.  
Boots, knowing the legality of what just happened, drinks malt liquor at a table.

Swiper hasn't moved since Backpack uncuffed him at his spot at the table. His eyes wander aimlessly in boredom.  
He notices a stringy-paddle in the corner and takes off his gloves.

But if we go backwards an inordinate amount of time, an inordinate amount of time to where Boots was regaling a mesmerizing tale of monkeydicks tearing apart amphibious creatures, something happened that not everybody noticed.  
In fact, only Swiper noticed it. Only Swiper noticed *someone* poison the coffy.

From there, if we go forwards an inordinate amount of time, we're all caught up.

"Backpack," he says.

"Yeah what."

"Can I play that geetar over there?"

"I reckon."

Swiper gets up.

Backpack adds, "you come back with anything but a guitar and my pistol plays a tune," he says, not holding a pistol, but a rifle. "Called Swiper's Salty Surprise. Of uh. Death. Death Surprise. I'm gonna fucking kill you, unnerstand?"

"Unnerstand," Swiper says, picking up the guitar and already plucking away at the strings as he saunters back to his place at the table. Shortly after he sits, he begins to sing.

 _"Drink up baby, stay up all night_  
 _with the things you could do, you won't but you might_  
 _the potential you'll be, that you'll never see._  
 _The promises you'll only make._

 _Drinks up with me now and forget all about_  
 _the pressure of days, do what I say_  
 _and I'll make you okay and drive them away._  
 _The images stuck in your head._

 _People you've been before that you_  
 _don't want around anymore._  
 _That push and shove that won't bend your will._  
 _I'll keep them still..."_

"That's that song you liked to sing on the stagecoach, isn't it?"

Swiper nods, clears his throat. "Mhm."

"What's it called?"

"Between the Bars."

Backpack laughs. "How appropriate."

"That's not what the song's abou-"

"It got another verse?"

"Oof." Swiper sighs, frustrated. "Yes."

"Well, go on. Sing it."

Swiper rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say, Backpack."  
He eyeballs the coffy as Backpack lets the two in, hammers up the door and pours itself a cup.

 _"Drink up baby, look at the stars._  
 _I'll kiss you again between the bars._  
 _Where I'm seeing you there, with your hands in the air,_  
 _waiting to finally be caught._

 _Drink up one more time and I'll make you mine._  
 _Keep you apart, deep in my heart._  
 _Separate from the rest, where I like you the best -_  
 _and keep the things you forgot._

 _People you've been before that you_  
 _don't want around anymore_  
 _that push and shove and won't bend to your will._  
 _I'll keep them still."_

Backpack takes a deep long sip of its coffy. "Mmm. Is that Bright Eyes?"

Swiper is disgusted. "Talking to you about art is like talking about science with a fundamentalist christian, Backpack."

Backpack finishes his sip, making a .O face. Its eye twitches as it advances towards Swiper. "Okay, okay, music time's over."  
He swipes the soundmaker from Swiper's sweaty grasp and smashes the guitar into the table several times as shattered pieces pelt Swiper. He shields himself with his hands.

"You fuckin' dick."

"Behind the bars," Backpack mutters, digging around in its pocket for the shackle. "I'll fucking show you behind the bars you miserable weasel."

"That's not what the song's about, you fucking-"

As soon as the shackle clasps shut Backpack projectile vomits blood directly into Swiper's contorting expression. Have grimace, half smile.  
"Great," Swiper says, rubbing blood into his eyes. He sighs angrily and leans forward, staring hard into Backpack's bamboozled eyes. "When you're yiffin' in hell, Backpack, tell 'em RhysWilde sent'cha."

Backpack is confused. It vomits again and falls to the floor, taking Swiper comically down with it.  
Vomiting directly into the air in strong thick jets like a backpack shaped fountain. Benny takes another sip and starts vomiting blood as well.

Boots notices Map pouring itself a fresh cup and stops it.  
"Map, the coffy!"

Blood thick with chunks of slop spews out of their faces like a pair of unruly firehoses until they are empty and dead.  
Dead like your parents, your loved ones, and yes even you will be someday.

Boots fires a round at the ceiling.  
"Everyone standing, get your asses against that wall. Hands where I can see them."

Boots notices Swiper digging around in the backpack's pockets for the handcuff key. He waits until he finds it and fires around into the corpse, getting blood in Swiper's eyes again.  
"God. Damn it."

He approaches. "Give me the key."  
His hand out. What else is new, Swiper thinks to himself.

Reluctantly hands over the cuff key and Boots drops it in the furnace.

"You goddamn dirty ape!" Swiper roars. "You're gonna get fucked to death with a kitchen knife and I'm gonna fucking laugh when you do!"  
Swiper begins sobbing, because he's ashamed. As all of us should be. Especially you, for reading this far.

"You mouth off to me again you gon' be swiping a bullet, unnerstand?"

"Goddamn, you are way better at this than Backpack."

Boots returns his attention towards the four men with their hands against the wall.

"Map, get your ass back here."

Map, confused, removes its invisible hands from the wall and approaches Boots.  
Boots removes the other pistol from his belt and offers it to the object.

Map looks at it.

"Go on. Take it."

Map cautiously grabs the pistol.

"..Point it at them."

A smile spreads across Map's face as it cocks the weapon. "I suppose you believe all that stuff earlier I was sayin' about bein' god, huh? Like, once I die, this whole universe collapses?"

"Uh. No. But you didn't poison the coffy because you almost drank it your damn self. So you aint one of them."

"One of them, huh? I aint. One of them. One of them?"

"Yes. One of them poisoned the coffy."

"The coffy?"

"Yes. One of them poisoned the coffy and I knowed it wasn't you because you almost drank it your damn self. Are you listening here?"

"The coffy..."

"Yes, the coffy. Now, do the fucking math. It don't take no master of geography to knowed one of them - or all of them are working with Swiper."

"Geology," Map says, matter of factly. "Geography is the study of vibrations in the ground. And I think it was you, Isa, you ugly som'bitch."

"Calm down, Map," Boots says, leaning back. Unloading the spent casings from his revolvers one at a time. "We'll get there. First, let's take it back. Let's take it waaaayyyyyyyyy back. First off, who made the coffy?"

"Backpack made the coffy."

"He's right," says Map, nodding its head area fervently. "Backpack did make the coffy."

"So it did," Boots says, loading his other pistol. "But it aint the coffy that's got me thinking. It's the stew. Now. When did you say Dora left for the northside? About three weeks ago?"

Pablo nods gravely.

"Okay. Now, my momma made slop all her life and the thing about a strong, consistent slop, it don't matter none what chunks awhat you toss in that slop. It always tastes the same. And this other feller in the jungle - he fancied a good nannerslop. I ate his slop from the time I was a babby monkey to the time where I was a full grown ape. And again. No matter whether it was nannerslop or coconut slop, it always tasted the same. See, I'm no expert, and it's been about six months since I had Dora's slap - but that damn slop was Dora's slop and that's the goddamn truth."

"I imagine you assume the coffy was poisoned when you was giving your speech about Slippy's Nipples?"

"I imagine that's when it happened, yeah," Boots nods.

"I was over on the other side of the room playing La Cucaracha on the piano. You got nothing on me, ese. I'm as clean as a mexican whistle."

"Mexican whistles aint clean," Boots says gravely. "And I didn't say you poisoned the coffy. I think you's working with the one that poisoned the coffy. And if you working with the one that poisoned the coffy, you're culpable."

"Monkey shenanigans." Pablo scoffs. "You gonna bet my life on one of your crazy sounding monkeyshines or can you prove it pen-day-ho."

"It's a little bit more than a theory based on slop," Boots says, smiling and laughing. "How long have you known Dora?"

"Three months."

"Y'see, if you knew about her about two years ago, you woulda noticed that sign that hung over the bar. She ever mention that sign to you?"

Pablo looks confused. He shakes his head.

"Its said NO CARRIERS OF THE PLAGUE OR MEXICANS ALLOWED. From the time she opened this haberdashery to about two years ago she hung that sign. And then she finally took it down. You know why she took it down, Pablo?"

"No," he says, shaking his head.

"She started letting in plague carriers."

Pablo can't respond to that. Boots makes his way over to a chair.

"And this here chair?" Boots gestures at the chair to emphasize his talking points. "This is Diego's chair. When I sat in it earlier, I couldn't believe it. This may be Dora's Haberdashery, but this is Diego's chair. And I know for a fact, that if his fat ass was traveling to the northside, the lazy sum'bitch that he was, he'd be bringing this chair with him."

Boots removes the blanket from the chair back. The audience gasps.

"What's in the chair, Boots?" Map asks.

"Just what I thought, Map," Boots sighs. "Diego's goddamn blood."

He's not lying. There's blood on the chair. It is indeed Diego's blood.

"Now," Boots continues, advancing Pablo. "If you is lying to me, which you is, and if you a filthy, lazy mexican, which you is, that means you killed Dora."

Boots fires a bullet with one gun into one of his nipples.

"And," he continues, nonchalantly, "you killed Diego."

Boots fires another bullet into Pablo's other nipple. He screams, falling to the floor.

Boots walks clockwise around the fallen mexican and points both barrels at Pablo's face. He fires both at the same time and his head caves in like a poorly scouted spelunking run gone bad.

"Four bullets," Boots says out loud, "and Paco's Taco Stand was closed down forever."

"His name was Pablo," Isa muttered.

"You working with him you ugly sum'bitch?!" He looks over at Boots. "Let me kill this ugly sum'bitch!"

"Down, Map. Now, he didn't poison the coffy. One of ya'll did. And you did it for this chump over here. And if ya'll don't fess up..."

Boots snatches the pot of coffy off the furnace.

"If ya'll don't fess up," he continues, "I'm gonna pour this whole pot of coffy down this barista faggot's throat. You've got two seconds. Time's up."

"Wait!" Isa says, turning around and flailing her arms. "I did it! I poisoned the coffy!"

"Aha!" Map says, cocking its pistol. "I knew this ugly sum'bitch did it! Let me send this ugly motherfucker to hell! You killed Benny! He was worth nine or eleven of you!"

This is when we get our first glance at the faggot in the basement. Drool leaking from its crooked yellow teeth, it cocks its pistol, pointing up. Standing directly under Boots.  
He fires, stealing the attention of Map as his testicle implodes and bursts against the force of the molten flying led.

Boots screams and falls over as Tico draws his secret pistol and shoots Map several times before Map turns around and shoots back, killing him instantly. He points his gun at Isa, who is unarmed.

"You can't kill me, god," Isa says in slow motion. "I aint got no bangyhandle."

The screams of the guy who he thought he killed instantly, screams of agony, echo throughout the room along with the screams of Boots. Who got shot in the coconuts.

This is how the scene ends.

* * *

 **MONKEY SEE**  
 **MONKEY DON'T**

* * *

Map limps over to the bed Boots is bleeding out on with a chair.  
Weakly it drags the chair over next to him and sets it down before sitting on it.  
You can't see much of this, because Map's arms and legs are invisible. Assuming that it has arms and legs and not some sort of bizarre limited range telekinesis capabilities.

One can't be sure. Certainly I'm not.

"How you doin', Boots?"

"Oh, I just got shot in the coconuts. Bleeding like a vagina dispelling its eggs. Probably gonna die soon. How about you?"

"Oh, part of my body is torn and punctured but I think-"

"Yeah I don't really give a shit. Are all those assholes dead yet?"

"No. Swiper and Isa are still alive. As well as whoever that is in the basement who shot you in the coconuts."

"Aight, we'd better take care of him first. Can you yell? I'm a little hoarse."

"You're a monkey, goddamnit, just because I've been shot doesn't mean I'm stupid. That may have worked on Backpack, but you ain't gonna pull that shit on me."

"That's not what I meant. Yell at the motherfucker to get out here."

"Hey, chungus. You've got about three seconds to get'cher ass out here and surrender before I shoot this bitch in the head."

"Wait!" Boots interrupts him. "You kinda suck at this." He says the next stuff louder. "You just open the door, we'll tell you when to come up. Any sudden movements and this goddamn weasel is feeding the rats."

The cellar door pops open.

"Good thinking," Map says. "Now. Throw up your pistol."

"Yeah," Boots says. "Towards the bed."

A gun flies out of the dark pit of the open cellar door and lands on the floor between them.

"Bet he got another one," Boots says.

"Throw up your other pistol," Map commands.

"I aint got another pistol!" the voice from the cellar says.

"You'd better tear your dick off and throw another gun up that way then because if I don't see another firearm exit that hole detached and disembodied, I'm gonna shoot this faggot in the head."

"Alright, alright," the voice in the cellar says. "Give me a second."

There's a stretching and a tearing sound.  
A scream followed by a flying detached dick and balls flies up in the air and flops out onto the floor.

Map nods at Boots, madness in its eyes and smile.

"Aight," Boots says. "Now come up, slowly. With your hands in the air."

"If you got hands," Map says, licking its lips.

Slowly, cornwallace's face emerges from the cellar. Her hands in the air, she faces Boots and Map before turning to Swiper.

"Hey faggot," she says endearingly, her yellow teeth leaking saliva. "How you doin'?"

"Better," he says, smiling, tears welling up in his bloody eyes, accompanying a sentimental smile. "Now that I see your dumb and ugly dyke face."

A gunshot blows the back of her head hollow as her corpse deadweights and falls back into the depths of the cellar.  
Swiper's shrill scream fills the room.

"He! - She was giving up!" Swiper screams, confounded and bamboozled.

"Yeah, well, she was taking too long," Boots says, pointing his gun at Isa. "Close that fucking door will ya?"

Isa, hands up, walks across the room and kicks the trap door shut. She looks at Swiper with apologetic eyes.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she says.

Isabell's face is pushed through the back of her skull by a sudden gunshot and attention is turned towards the shooter - Map.

"That dumb ugly face existed for too long," Map says.

Boots bellows out a laugh as Map sets its sights on Swiper.

"And now you. And now we come to the part of our story where I blow your goddamn fucking head off. And then you die. And then you swipe your way straight to hell. You hear me, you goddamn weasel?"

"Wait wait wait wait wait," Boots says, lifting an arm to stop him but not really doing anything with it.

"What?"

"We can't kill Swiper like that."

"Why the hell not?"

An exasperated sigh escapes Boots's chimplips. "Backpack. Now, Backpack sucked, we all know that."

"We do," Map says.

"We all hated him and we're glad he's dead," Swiper says.

They all nod solemnly. All three of them.

"But," Boots continues, swallowing mouthfuls of his own blood. "But we don't get to decide if we're going to die up here, Map. We are. We're both mortally wounded. What we do get to decide is how this bitch dies. Since we hate him almost as much as we hated Backpack, I think we oughta honor his wishes. He coulda shot him at anytime. But Backpack wanted to see this goddamn weasel raped to death by armpit sniffing wolves. Now, we aint no wolves but. I say shootin's too good for this bitch."

Map looks at Boots then at Swiper. Then back at Boots. It nods, tired.  
Boots and Map fuck Swiper to death while sniffing his armpits and making him sniff theirs. After his death, they collapse in unison into two separate piles of bloody and sticky mess on the bed.  
After some post-coital groaning, they go quiet after awhile.

An inordinate amount of time passes.

"Can I read that fake RhysWilde commission?"

Boots, with some effort, digs around in his ass with a freshly bloody hand. Unsure if the blood is his own or Swiper's, he doesn't care, and he digs out the wrinkled wad of notebook paper out of his ass and throws it at Map.

Map opens it with its freshly bloody hands or invisible aura. Somehow it's still hard to tell.

It reads as Map reads it out loud;

* * *

 _"Socks is being humiliated both mentally and physically._  
 _Wolf makes him call him dady._  
 _Wolf sniffs his armpits and tells him they are stinky._  
 _Socks is very ashamed and humiliated._  
 _Wolf pulls out his barbed cock and shoves it without lube inside of Socks's puckering, effeminate, gay boypussy._  
 _The barbs on his giant cock tear away at the walls of his colon, causing him to slowly bleed to death internally._  
 _Wolf makes Socks call him dady._  
 _He makes him say "dady iw an u fuk"_  
 _dady fuks_  
 _Socks is an effeminate faggotboy sissy and likes to be raped to death._  
 _Video is captured of his suffering, and is later masturbated to._  
 _That video is the notebook paper you hold in your very hands._  
 _Oh well. Ole Mary Todd's calling._

 _Yours always,_  
 _RhysWilde_

* * *

Boypussy," it says, limply dropping the bloody paper and closing its eyes. "That was a nice touch."

Boots chuckles.  
"Yeah," Boots says. "Thank you."

* * *

 _Dedicated to RhysWilde_  
 _and the Star Fox fandom in general_  
 _for giving Wolf an armpit sniffing fetish_  
 _and still obsessing over canon._

* * *

 **Credits:**

 **Written and directed by**  
 **Backpack, backpack**

 **Produced by**  
 **backpack bootswiper map**

 **Executive producers**  
 **cornwallace**  
 **Swiper. No swiping**

 **Backpack ... John Ruth**  
 **Swiper ... Daisy Domergue**  
 **Boots ... Sam Jackson**  
 **Map ... Chris Mannix**  
 **Grumpy Old Troll ... Racist Old Man**  
 **Pablo ... Mexican Bob**  
 **Benny ... O.B.**  
 **Tico ... Tim Roth**  
 **Isa ... Whoever Michael Madsen was, I forget his name who cares.**  
 **cornwallace ... Jody Domingre**

 **based on chapter five of Balls off by tha infamous cornwallace**

 **music by Roy Orbison and ÆdS**

 **no apologies were or will be made for the existence of this piece of shit.**

 _ **i'll see you all in hell.**_  
 _ **maybe we'll yiff.**_


	2. Postscript

Slippy gets nekkid w fox then they have sez and make babies that are half fox half toad and liv happily ever after


End file.
